


owen's river

by penrosequartz



Series: PRQ's Marvel Extravaganza [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (sorry), California, Chess, Divorce, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, F/M, Grief, Hating on Los Angeles, Hospitals, Hugs, M/M, Mentions of Death, Mystery, Night Driving, Pietro is Alive and Well, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Present Tense, Reconnaissance, Resurrection, Song Lyrics, Surveillance, basically they're in love but they don't really know it yet, but barely any angst, happy fic, how is he alive?, i flash my nobody knows card from QI right here, most of these are very minor including the hospitals and surveillance ones, which is weird for me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 11:13:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13165740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penrosequartz/pseuds/penrosequartz
Summary: Pietro hates L.A. and Clint thinks he is dead. Nearly everyone thinks Pietro is dead, and they are wrong. Thanos is actually dead though, thank god.There's a steadiness here.





	owen's river

**Author's Note:**

> henlo, it is i, back with even more hawksilver fic, because there's something about this ship that just keeps bringing me back, every time.  
> this is set sometime after infinity war. basically just pietro chilling and bein a dude, clint chilling and bein a dude, they're thinking about eachother :)

**PIETRO**

Where the river meets the aqueduct, there's a concrete bridge of sorts. He’s driven for a while to get out here - because he still can't run, not yet. The shiny silver car they gave him is nice, and it blends in well enough with the L.A. crowd. Pietro supposes he looks like some young guy taking his rich parents’ car out for a spin.

Well, he hates L.A., more then he should. The city has been kind to him, been his hideout to heal, been his fluorescent oxygen on cold nights. The apartment they gave him is expensive, and has lots of windows - Pietro likes windows.

He spent too much of his life without windows.

But he's driven out of the city, far out, to where the glitter drains the river and the lakes and leaves dust behind. He's driven to look at the mountains, snow dusting like - he wants to say icing sugar, but it's cocaine.

He laughs as the thought occurs, imagining giants taking hits off the back of the huge hills, and he must look a madman out here giggling to himself. He clamps his mouth shut and frowns. His eyes narrow. He breathes.

The air is cold on his lungs, which isn't a good thing for him, he reminds himself. He used to be visited every day by a medic for a check-up, which then extended to a week, then every fortnight. Before that, it was a hospital, and every second, minute, hour. He healed. He doesn't know how, but he did.

His next medical check is next week. A Tuesday. That's the last one before they let him off for a while - he has to wait at least two more months to use his speed, and he has to start small. He has a list of exercises and stretches and he has to _practice jogging._ Imagine practicing jogging, it's about as bad as it sounds, and it’s worse for him.

He gets an allowance, but he has to try to get a job. S.H.I.E.L.D. will give him a “signal” (whatever that means) when it's safe to contact his sister again. He's not sure if he'll ever get that sign.

His plan is to wait until he can use his speed, get back to full strength. Then _run,_ run back to Wanda and hug her and find that archer and hug him too.

Pietro leans his weight against the railing of the bridge. The desert, cold and hard and bare, is all around him. The sun is setting, and it's licking orange all around the sky, pink, purple, yellow, grey. Pietro wants to stay here forever, but once it gets cold, it will get _cold,_ and he needs to heal as quickly as possible.

He taps his foot against the concrete, itching to run, and feels the rush of it pulsing through him. But he can't - he owes it to Wanda. He can't.

He pulls out his shiny silver phone as he walks back through the dust to his shiny silver car, opens his music. He needs something to chill him out. Something to compliment the welcoming chlorine pool light of the city as he winds his way back.

He puts a playlist on shuffle, and sure, it compliments the scene, but he's not paying as much attention to the music as he should be. He's trying to distract his mind with the steady beat, the rolling voice - it's not working. His mind drifts to the archer.

_Clint._

The man who Pietro died to save. The man who, according to whispers on frequencies, through back doors, got his sister out of Stark’s god damn maze of a complex. Apparently, Wanda has forgiven Stark for this. Pietro hasn't. Pietro hasn’t forgotten Clint, either - what that man has done is incredible, to say the least. He’s read the file. He knows there’s things that weren’t in there, but Barton’s record probably doesn’t need it - it’s impressive on its own, without any extra Super Secret Shit.

And Pietro doesn't remember much about coming back. Doesn't remember Clint carrying his body onto the ship, doesn't remember waking up, even. But something he’ll never forget is the way Clint looked at him when Pietro fell, riddled with bullets and lost hope and no potential energy, not anymore.

Guilt, sadness. Longing. Disbelief. Hope, even, just a glimmer. Maybe that's what brought Pietro back from the dead.

The famous Quicksilver is still not the best at driving. He bumps along the highway, and he grins - he’s gotten a few speeding tickets. Nothing major. It’s just that, on the road, he can finally go fast again. He misses it.

It's a deeper need, something dislodged deep inside him. He needs to run more than he needs to see Clint again, more than he needs to see his sister. He needs to run more than he needs to breathe.

But S.H.I.E.L.D. is telling him to hold his breath, and for once, he’s doing what he's told - he can't risk it. He needs to get strong again.

Pietro drives into his cigarette smog labyrinth. Tomorrow, eggs on toast and job hunting and soap. Tonight, he's going to just breathe in.

_now everybody’s dead, and they're driving past my old school. and he's got his gun, and he's got his suit on, and she says “babe… you look so cool.”_

 

 

When he says he hates L.A., he doesn’t mean the way the city looks from the outside. He doesn’t mean the way the lights blink, doesn’t even mean the way the sirens blare and music plays. He doesn’t mean the way Los Angeles shines in the dust, reaching concrete, glass, steel, tar fingers out into the desert from the coast.

He means the people. The Hollywood stars and the heat and the pearls that hang from the ears of the rich. He can’t stand it.

The City of Angels is nice to look at, but not so nice to be _in,_ not for months on end. But he’ll be out of here soon, he tells himself. Job first, get money. Get out.

It’s like the U.S. itself, he supposes - in Sokovia, though he hated Stark (less so, now, but still a little), America had seemed like a land out of a fairytale. Hot dogs and Route 66, sunglasses and Coney Island. But now, deep in the golden sand that’s suffocating him, America is just another country like all the rest.

Well, not _quite_ like all the rest. It has this dangerous edge to it, and it’s almost like nuclear devastation is right above their heads, but nobody cares. It’s off-putting, a little weird. The government is certainly something, but Pietro’s known that since he was a kid. Conspiracy theories, cover-ups, and he feels like at least some of the rumours are probably true.

And he’s sitting there, air-con on, sipping a glass of water.

He glances down at the packaging that’s catching the morning light. There’s four little red pills left. Four little white pills. Four little blue pills. Red for breakfast, white for lunch, blue for dinner. Glass of water for dessert.

He’s been eating actual food, of course - eggs and bacon and salad and Chinese takeout. But these pills are sustaining him, keeping him healthy. He doesn’t know what they are, or what’s in them. The silver packaging (that looks almost like a painkiller packet) doesn’t have any ingredients on it. If he skips a pill, he’ll feel weak, maybe nauseous. Get a fever, apparently. If he skips a day, he might die.

There’s plenty to spare in case he loses any, or… well, he’s got a lot in stock, so maybe that’s just how long S.H.I.E.L.D. plans to leave him here. He’s got an alarm on his phone that he doesn’t ignore. He gets up at 0630 every morning, no matter how much sleep he’s had. The alarm is really fucking loud. He takes a white pill at 1200. Takes a blue at 1900. He doesn’t have a set time to go to bed, though he probably should with how late he keeps driving out into the desert.

That’s where he’s going to run, when he can, he tells himself. He doesn’t know where that fits into his plan, because as soon as he can run, he’s going straight to Wanda. Right?

Maybe a little detour.

He opens the fridge and he needs eggs. And bread. And milk. Maybe some carrots and stuff for vegetable soup, why not? He can find a recipe online. It’s gonna have a lot of salt.

Pietro really needs some salt. He doesn’t know why, but he’s been craving it. Salt, salt, salt.

He eats a lot, too, being a speedster. He eats less now because he’s not running, but he still has a high metabolism, so he just seems like a… really hungry guy.

He’s made a friend, here in Los Angeles.

It was surprising for him, too - he wasn’t supposed to. It just happened. Pietro doesn’t even think he’s allowed to. But there’s a text from Laura when he picks up his phone, asking to meet for lunch, and he says yes.

It’s occurred to him that maybe Laura is a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent is disguise, or something, but if she is, he doesn’t really mind. She’s nice to talk to and she’s a little bit shady about her past, and the children he’s met are playful and innocent but there’s something sad behind their eyes. He hasn’t seen a partner around. He hasn’t asked.

He’s told her his name is Peter. She accepts this readily. Peter Johnson, that’s what it says on his license - which, though he’s been practicing, he hasn’t officially earned, because it’s fake. That makes him feel slightly guilty.

_summertime, the weather’s hotter, you’re running out of holy water - i hate all your songs about having fun, next to strip malls in the bleached out sun._

 

 

Lunch is good, burgers, and Laura berates him for eating two. Then complains, because “you eat so much but you’re still so fit!” She even gives him a wink - he’s knows it’s not like that, not between them. He’s not looking for anyone, no one except an agent to tell him what to do next, and neither is she. She’s looking for a friend, and she believes that’s him. Maybe it is him. But he won’t be sticking around for long.

And Laura calls him later to tell him she’s going out of town for a while. Florida, apparently, to visit an aunt. Sounds nice. Pietro almost wants to come with, but he’s got his instructions. Stay in California.

Then, Laura gives an exasperated groan. Her youngest, Nate, is probably pulling at her hair or drawing on a wall - she’s pulling her own hair out because of him, honestly. And right before she apologises to ‘Peter’, right before she hangs up, Pietro catches a shout.

“Nathaniel Pietro Bart- Cardellini, put that down!”

Pietro’s breath catches in his throat.

Laura. Clint’s Laura, that’s who she is. And she doesn’t know Pietro - she’s clearly never seen a photo, but that’s not surprising. She’s taken her maiden name back. She doesn’t wear a wedding band.

She and Clint aren’t married anymore.

Pietro feels conflicted. Was this fate, or chance, or did somebody set this up? Did something happen? Was Laura okay, was _Clint?_ Was that sadness is the children’s eyes from divorce, their parents fighting? Or…

And it comes to him, and brings it all crashing down.

_What if Clint is dead?_

A knife twists in Pietro’s gut. Of course Clint isn’t dead, he tells himself. Of course not.

But how can he know, for sure? S.H.I.E.L.D. sure as hell won’t tell him anything, his medic probably won’t know. But wouldn’t it be in the paper, on the news? Maybe not.

Keep calm, and carry on - he waits it out, and he doesn’t say anything to Laura when she gets back. He manages to get a job at that burger joint - he’s just such a good customer.

When Tuesday rolls around, he’s ready for his check-up. And he’s ready to ask some questions.

(He doesn't get the answers he wants, but he gets a call from someone he once met, and he knows that everything is going to be okay).

_i’m out of touch with everyone, and everything’s a blur to me._

 

**CLINT**

Clint isn’t dead, but he almost wishes- no. That’s not how he’s going to think.

He sent Laura away and she didn’t understand why, and when they tried to fix themselves they found that they weren’t the people they used to be.

She took the kids to California, glittery and fun, a fresh start. And Clint had been locked up and broken out and just plain broken, bones and hearts and inside, outside, all of it.

And now he’s curled on the floor in a motel in Arizona with Bruce sleeping in one of the beds, twitching as he dreams, and Clint’s picking dust off the grey carpet. The night is warm, and they’re far enough away from… well, anything, anywhere, that Clint thinks he could see stars if he walked outside.

He doesn’t go outside. His body is sore. He clambers into the single with the hard matress but it feels like heaven compared to what he’s slept on before. And he touches the spider bracelet on his wrist, and something warm lights up in him. He misses Natasha, so much.

That just reminds him of all the holes inside. There’s different shaped ones - the biggest are Laura and Pietro. He refuses to think about Wanda right now, because the girl is still lying in a hospital after what happened. She’ll live.

He hopes.

Clint still has hope for certain things, but not Pietro. Not anymore. Clint knows that there’s things S.H.I.E.L.D. will never tell him, like where Pietro’s body went after the kid died, but there’s no way they would bring the speedster back. They can’t risk it.

Clint and Bruce are on a recon mission. Sorry, _strictly_ recon mission, and Clint could have put up a fight about going but he couldn’t be bothered. Bruce needs to rest, and at least this gives the scientist something to do while he does. No one wants to lock Banner up in a hospital ward, it’d be hell after what the guy’s been through. Thor and all his Asgardian buddies are snuggled up in Tony’s complex. That Valkyrie girl is pretty impressive, Clint has to admit, and she and Natasha seem to get on well. Steve and Tony are slowly patching things up, both personally and diplomatically, trying to get the U.S. Government not to nuke them.

Clint’s trying not to think about Thanos. Trying not to think about that spider-kid, the one lying in the hospital right next to Wanda. He’s got a slimmer chance than her, but people with “special abilities” are always unpredictable. Trying not to think about Rhodes, Wilson, just don’t go there.

The solution is to just not go there.

Clint doesn’t go anywhere.

He doesn’t even go to sleep.

He just stares at the carpet again, from his bed this time, until dawn.

_doc, there’s a hole where something was._

 

 

Clint’s coffee is stale and black. He pours three sugars into it, and it still tastes like shit. He drinks it anyway.

Bruce steers clear of the packets of instant stimulant and makes himself some tea. Neither of them have said a word to eachother yet.

When Bruce finally sits down on his bed and takes a sip of the Earl Grey, he breathes a sigh of content.

“I’m ready now,” he smiles at Clint, “Good morning.”

“Morning, Bruce,” Clint replies, and his smile feels hollow as he packs up all their surveillance stuff into a suitcase.

The lady at the reception area bids them goodbye, but shoots them a dirty look. Clint doesn’t know what he did, but clearly he ruined that woman’s day. That cheers him up a little.

He’s a spiteful bastard.

They drive out to the quinjet and leave the car. Someone’s gonna pick it up later.

And then they fly back to New York in silence.

_i'm gonna bribe the officials, i'm gonna kill all the judges, it's gonna take you people years to recover from all of the damage._

 

 

It’s months later that Clint gets a call. Wanda is out of the hospital, and so is Peter Parker, by some miracle. Clint is playing chess with Tony, making jokes as Steve reads a book on the couch in the corner. Every so often, the super-soldier looks up at Tony fondly, before going back to his reading. Must be a page-turner, because he’s nearly finished by the time Clint’s phone rings.

His phone doesn’t recognise the number, but that doesn’t scare him anymore.

“Barton,” he answers with his name, professional, informative.

“Obviously,” Fury answers, and Clint’s eyes go wide.

“Sir?” He asks, and he’s just a little confused as to why Nick is calling him _now,_ of all times. Has something happened?

“You remember your roadrunner kid?” Fury questions, and Clint’s heart leaps into his mouth. What’s going on? What’s going on what’s going on why why-

“Yes?” He manages shakily.

“He’s in Los Angeles. Things are pretty quiet at the moment. Don’t let him run, not yet - but go pick him up.”

Clint finds that anger is firey, licking at the sides of his mind. It’s giving him a headache already. There’s relief, disbelief, distrust.

“Is this a joke?” Clint says for some reason, and Fury snickers.

“No, you idiot. Get your ass in a quinjet and go to California, or drive, if you have to,” and Fury’s voice drops an octave, “Just make it quick.”

Clint knows something is wrong. He can’t trust this. He can’t trust that Pietro is there but he can’t trust that he isn’t, and maybe the kid’s in some sort of trouble.

“Yes, sir.”

Clint hangs up the phone.

“We gotta take a raincheck on this, but I’m winning,” he tells Tony, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair, and Steve is already on edge.

“Who was that?” Rogers asks, and Clint instinctively knows that he has to either completely lie or spit it out, all of it.

“Fury,” he decides to say, “Pietro’s alive.”

“Piet- but- isn’t he dead?” Tony stammers, glancing from Clint to Steve.

“He was,” Clint affirms, “I think something’s up. I gotta go get him.”

“Where is he?” Steve asks.

“L.A., apparently,” Clint replies, a tug in his brain telling him that _Laura’s there, too._

“Does Wanda know?” Steve drops a bookmark into his book’s pages and gestures for Tony to get up. Stark stands.

“I don’t think so,” Clint shakes his head, “I gotta leave.”

“Where you gonna park, you thought about that?” Stark rolls his eyes, “We’re taking my plane. Let’s go.”

It’s then - only then - that Clint realises Fury didn’t give him an address. Fury doesn’t pick up the phone again, but Pietro is _at_ the airstrip when they land. The guy looks conflicted, Clint thinks, confused, scared.

“Where’s Wanda?” He questions Stark. Clint hasn’t left the plane, he’s still behind Steve. With that man’s height, Pietro can’t see him, but Clint can see Pietro.

“We had to come straight here, apparently,” Stark begins, “Barton-”

Pietro cuts him off as Clint steps out from behind the super-soldier.

“Barton?” he asks, turning, and then they make eye contact.

“Hey,” Clint manages, because here’s the dead man that’s been haunting his dreams, standing there. The archer makes his way down the stairs.

The shaken look that was in Pietro’s eyes before is replaced by a look of determination, and Clint almost thinks Maximoff is going for a choke hold, but no. The speedster pulls him into a firm, steady hug. It takes a second for Clint to realise what’s happening.

“Hug me back, you ass,” Pietro huffs, and Clint does.

Pietro’s accent is faint, but still there. He’s got West Coast in his voice now, and that’s like it's own fine sand, impossible to get out.

He sounds good.

Things are good.

No matter what's happening, whatever sinister plot Fury needs them to defeat, whatever they need Pietro to ~~reopen his wounds~~ **run for,** Clint is just glad that he's alive. He'll take him to his sister and he'll help in any way he can. He'll do anything for this man.

That's what he realises, one hand around Pietro's waist, one tangled in the speedster's hair. He'll do anything. Maybe it's love. Maybe it's not. It doesn't matter. He has Pietro back - and he's going to makes sure it stays that way, no matter the cost.

_we’re catching bullets with the best resources that we've got, we're happy - then again, we're not... we shout through the endless doubt._

**Author's Note:**

> so i hope you enjoyed this, i wrote this in under 24 hours but i'm proud of it i guess?  
> PRQ out, please pretty please leave me a comment cause it makes my gosh diddly darn day


End file.
